May Violets Spring
by luckbringer
Summary: Hamlet returns to Denmark to find Ophelia, his one and only love, as dead as poor Yorick. He's angry, grief-stricken, savage, remorseful...and then, suddenly, just a little bit hopeful. An alternate ending to the classic tale that might finally give Hamlet his happy ending.
1. Violets, for Death Too Soon

**This work is meant to be a tribute, not a replacement, to William Shakespeare, his son, Hamnet, and the "Hamlet" masterpiece. Some of the characters and their actions/scene directions were taken or inspired by two movie versions of "Hamlet": the one directed by Gregory Doran, starring David Tennant, and the one directed by, and starring, Kenneth Branagh. I own nothing except my own words. Enjoy!

But first, some plot recap. This fanfic will begin in the middle of act 5, scene 1, and will contain Shakespeare's words from line 220 to line 302. The Bard's words from "Hamlet" will be in italics, and mine will be kept in the normal font. I will be attempting to write all of my lines of dialogue in iambic pentameter (but we'll see how long that lasts, now won't we?). Before this, Hamlet returns to Denmark from what would have been an ill-fated journey to London. He comes prepared to finish what he started and avenge his father by killing Claudius. Along the way, Hamlet and his friend, Horatio, pass by a gravedigger digging an unknown grave. They converse, and Hamlet has a moment with the skull of Yorick, King Hamlet's old jester, before he is interrupted by a funeral procession. It is Laertes, Claudius, and Gertrude bringing the dead body of Ophelia. By the end of this chapter, the story will enter "alternate ending" territory.**

Hamlet sighed and rolled poor Yorick's skull in his palm. How was it that a rotted chunk of bone had the ability to bring back so many fond memories? For a prince of Denmark, Yorick had been Hamlet's only childhood friend. The jester had entertained young Hamlet many times with nothing more than his words, his expressions, and a bucket of water. And now here he was, another skull scattered among the dirt. Now is he surely knocking the dead souls' pates, Hamlet mused, the thought making him smile.

All things come to dust. It was a fact Hamlet had known, but not completely comprehended, even before leaving Wittenberg. After all the events that had transpired since, he thought he'd have greater understanding of it. But now, seeing Yorick's bones littered among those of poor cobblers and wealthy land owners, Hamlet finally understood. It wasn't just the body that decomposed into dust, but honor and wealth and even love as well. Death was truly final. What did it matter how good a man's morals were, or how beauteous a woman made herself to be? According to the gravedigger, all it took was eight or nine years for a man like Alexander the Great to turn into a man like…him.

"_Imperious Caesar, dead and turned to clay, might stop a hole to keep the wind away_," Hamlet muttered aloud. "_O, that that earth which kept the world in awe should patch a wall t' expel the winter's flaw!_"

Horatio opened his mouth to comment, when suddenly Hamlet spotted a group of people coming towards them.

"_But soft, but soft awhile!_" He whispered, pulling himself and his friend behind a patch of hydrangeas. "_Here comes the King, the Queen, the courtiers_."

Indeed, that was who the group appeared to be. They were slowly walking along the side of the church, all dressed in black with their necks bent, as if in sadness. Four men carried a wooden casket above them, its wood uncharacteristically misshapen and the lid missing.

Hamlet's narrowed his eyes. "_Who is this they follow?_" he murmured, "_And with such maimed rites?_" It appeared to be a funeral procession, but most events involving royalty, even events as mournful as this, involved enormous presentations of wealth and regality. More than just a Doctor of Divinity and a dirt grave. A shameful death, perhaps?

"_This doth betoken the corse they follow did with desp'rate hand fordo its own life_," Hamlet whispered to Horatio. "_'Twas of some estate._"

His friend didn't reply. As the king and his entourage approached, Hamlet pushed aside his musings and pulled Horatio with him behind a bush. "_Crouch we awhile and mark._"

The grave digger, meanwhile, had forgotten their presence, and continued to dig and sing under his breath.

One of the richly-adorned men detached himself from the group to stand beside the Doctor of Divinity. "_What ceremony else?_" The man asked him.

Hamlet's eyes widened. "_That is Laertes, a very noble youth. Mark._" He ignored his friends shushing movements.

Horatio sat back on his heels and blew out a silent puff of air. Both Hamlet and he had been away from Denmark for quite some time. Who knew who could be that casket? If it proved to be someone who'd been dear to the prince, Horatio had to be read to keep Hamlet from launching himself at the procession like a mad man. The loyal friend tried to see who was missing from the group, but too many wore indiscernible black hoods.

"_What ceremony else?_" Laertes repeated.

The Doctor adjusted the collar of his black robe as if it was stifling him. "_Her obsequies have been as far enlarged as we have warranty_," he answered. "_Her death was doubtful and, but that great command o'ersways the order, she should be in ground unsanctified been lodged till the last trumpet. For charitable prayers shards, flints, and pebbles should be thrown on her._"

Laertes opened his mouth to interrupt with anger, but the priest silenced him with a raised hand. "_Yet here she is allowed her virgin crants, her maiden strewments, and the bringing home of bell and burial._"

Hamlet stared at his hands, as if the wrinkles on his palms held the answers to his problems. Laertes had always seemed like a scholar to him. A bit rash at times, but a good and intelligent man at heart. Who could have died for Laertes to become this estranged? Hamlet could only think of Polonius, Laertes' father, but that funeral should have taken place months ago. And Polonius hadn't been a woman, unless Hamlet had changed more than just the old man's blood content and breathing patterns.

"_Must there no more be done?_" Laertes growled.

The Doctor of Divinity shook his head sadly. Though he was a holy man, taught that all victims of self-sacrifice were to be ostracized from church yards, he couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness for the woman. She was obviously loved very much by this man, so what could have prompted such a beautiful woman to take her own life? But his musings would not help to put the anxious man beside him at ease. "_No more be done_," he concluded. He gestured to the freshly dug grave, which the gravedigger was standing beside like a proud parent. "_We should profane the service of the dead to sing a requiem and such rest to her as to peace-parted souls._"

Laertes nodded to the holy man, and then to the procession behind him. At his signal the men carried the casket towards the hole. The gravedigger, sensing that his work was done, hoisted his shovel on his shoulder and went on his way, whistling a tune and tossing Yorick's skull up and down, up and down. The rest of the procession took their places, the king and queen at the foot of the grave, Laertes on the side, and the priest at the head.

"_Lay her in the earth, and from her fair and unpolluted flesh may violets spring!_" Laertes lifted his eyes from the coffin and openly glared at the Doctor. "_I tell thee, churlish priest, a minist'ring angel shall my sister be when thou liest howling._"

Hamlet felt his heart freeze and the blood drain from his face. "_What, the fair Ophelia?_" He breathed, and he scrambled to his knees to attempt to see for himself. Horatio finally managed to hold him back with an arm around his friend's shoulders, but not before the prince caught a glimpse of what lay in the open casket. The breath in his lungs vanished unused as he saw that it was indeed Ophelia being lowered into the earth, and not some other maid.

The queen wiped her eyes absently and went to stand on the other side of the grave. "_Sweets to the sweet, farewell!_" She said as she bent down to scatter flowers over Ophelia's body. "_I hoped thou shouldst have been my Hamlet's wife; I thought thy bride-bed to have decked, sweet maid, and not have strewed thy grave._"

Horatio glanced at his friend worriedly, but there were no emotional explosions yet. Yet the man sitting next to him didn't look like the friend he had come to know and, yes, even love. This Hamlet was as lifeless as the corpses beneath their feet, staring at the funeral with features as cold as stone. Horatio would have almost preferred a breakdown.

The group stood around the fateful hole in silence for a few moments, before Laertes broke the still ness with a voice that sounded like a snarl. "_O, treble woe fall ten times on that cursèd head whose wicked deed thy most ingenious sense deprived thee of!_"

Figuring that the nobleman's words were their signal, the work men started to move towards the hole with their shovels, but Laertes stopped them with a raised palm. "_Hold off the earth awhile, till I have caught her once more in mind arms._"

In Horatio's mind, jumping into his sister's grave was the worst thing Laertes could have done. The minute the man's feet touched the newly exposed ground Hamlet came to life. He was like a beast gone made, struggling against Horatio's grasp and practically snarling as Laertes picked up his sister's corpse. But they're embrace was anything but beautiful or poignant, not with Ophelia's arms flopping around like dead fish. The display was so full of raw desperation that the Doctor of Divinity turned deathly pale, and even the king and queen looked away.

"_Now pile your dust upon the quick and dead_," Laertes said tonelessly, but loud enough it seemed he was cursing the earth itself. Hamlet continued to struggle in his friend's grip as the nobleman's words fanned the flames of his rage. "_Till of this flat a mountain you have made t' o'ertop old Pelion or the skyish head of blue Olympus._"

Hamlet finally managed to free himself from Horatio's grasp, and he burst from the bushes fully prepared to save Ophelia from defilement. It was the least he could do for the woman he'd…no, he had no right to say that word. Not after all he'd done to her.

His rage returned to him and Hamlet shouted, "_What is he whose grief bears such an emphasis, whose phrase of sorrow conjures the wand'ring stars and makes them stand like wonder-wounded hearers? This is I, Hamlet the Dane!_"

Queen Gertrude gasped and covered her mouth in astonishment, and the priest muttered holy words and crossed himself. If anyone had been paying attention to him, they would have seen King Claudius turn deathly pale, as if he was seeing his own death before him. But Laertes was only stunned for half a moment, before his face became red and purple from barely-suppressed loathing. He laid Ophelia back in her grave and turned to Hamlet, shouting, "_The devil take thy soul!_"

Hamlet paused halfway to the rave, his chest heaving. A false smile played on his lips as he cheekily replied, "_Thou pray'st not well._" Then, like two opposing storms, they charged one another and clashed near the foot of Ophelia's grave.

The prince might have had the element of surprise, but Laertes had the desperation of a man fighting to avenge two souls instead of one. He dodged Hamlet's first swing, and then skipped all pretense of foreplay and instead went straight for his enemy's throat.

Hamlet let out a strangled gasp as the other man's arm hooked around his neck and railed his fists against Laertes. "_I prithee take thy fingers from my throat, for though I am no splentitive and rash, yet have I in me something dangerous, which let thy wisdom fear. Hold off thy hand._"

He grinned as one of his blows struck Laertes squarely on the jaw, and used the reprieve to drive his ankle into his rival's knee and twist out of his hold. Then they were at each other again, arms locked in a wrestling match for Ophelia's love and honor.

All the while, the surrounding mourners cried out in shock and fear. The king turned to his men and ordered, "_Pluck them asunder._"

"_Hamlet! Hamlet!_" Queen Gertrude screamed.

The men in black advanced on the grappling men and reached for them both, crying, "_Gentleman!_"

Seeing that his lord was in danger of being arrested (and maybe being deported, again), Horatio overcame his initial hesitations and jumped out from behind the bushes. "_Good my lord, be quiet_," he hissed, pulling Hamlet away from Laertes before the king's men could get their hands on his friend.

The two men were finally separated, Laertes and the king's men on one side of Ophelia's grave, and Hamlet and Horatio on the other. The king kept himself and his wife on the edge of the proceedings, next to the still-praying Doctor of Divinity.

In the back of his mind, Hamlet knew that his actions were borderline unseemly, especially for a prince, but he was beyond caring. All it took was one glance…Ophelia. Was it strange that he was surprised to see that Laertes' words were true? She looked so peaceful, as if she were sleeping. Perhaps sudden grief was to blame for making him think such childish thoughts, but his sadness also made a new kind of determination settle within him.

Before Laertes or anyone else present could speak, Hamlet growled, "_Why, I will fight with him upon this theme until my eyelids no longer wag!_"

"_O my son, what theme?_" The queen asked desperately.

"_I loved Ophelia!_" Hamlet shouted. And that was the problem wasn't it? A maiden such as Ophelia deserved those words at all hours of the day, in the present tense, and a man who was not afraid to say them. But Hamlet knew that he was not that man. He lied, used those closest to him, and held vengeful murder in his soul. And he'd told her so, on that fateful day that felt like a lifetime ago. The words, "_Get thee to a nunnery!_", rang in his ears and made him wince.

She'd chosen to protect her father that day, and why shouldn't she? He'd pushed her away in a time when his addled brain could have used her comfort the most. And then he'd confused her with mixed signals of his love for her…what an ass he was! Was it too self-righteous of him to wonder if he was the reason she took her life? If he had been braver, or more honorable, with his love for her, would she have killed herself? As it was, Ophelia had died too soon. She would never know that although his core was blackened by revenge, his heart had always belonged to her.

He swallowed down the first of his sobs and locked eyes with Laertes. "_Forty thousand brothers could not with all their quantity of love make up my sum_," Hamlet told him. "_What wilt thou do for her?_"

"_O, he is mad, Laertes!_" King Claudius hissed.

"_For love of God, forbear him_," Queen Gertrude said quickly, but it was unclear whether she was talking to her husband or Laertes.

Mad, was he? Not so near made enough to kill my kin, Hamlet thought, but he didn't voice his bitter thoughts. His quarrel was with Laertes. His mother's, and even his uncle's, judgment would come later.

Hamlet turned back to Laertes and drew himself to his full height (or as best he could while being restrained by Horatio). "_'Swounds, show me what thou't do_," he barked. "_Woo't weep, woo't fight, woo't fast, woo't tear thyself, woo't drink up eisel, eat a crocodile? I'll do 't._" His lips curled into a sneer. "_Dost thou come here to whine? To outface me with leaping in her grave? Be buried quick with her, and so will I!_"

With a violent heave, Hamlet broke free of his friend's hold and sunk to his knees beside Ophelia's grave. Everyone around him took a collective gasp and Laertes' face was as red as a furnace, all of them assuming that he intended to be the second person to leap into her grave. But, while part of Hamlet yearned to do just that, he couldn't bring himself to do so. She looked so out of place among the dirt and bones, pale and white, with a body that lay askew from when Laertes had held her. Even the scattered flowers looked more wilted in the muddy hole.

All men and women might be condemned to disintegrate into dirt and dust, but Ophelia did not belong under the earth. Not yet. Hamlet growled, "_And if thou prate of mountains, let them throw millions of earth on us, till our ground, singing his pate against the burning zone, make Ossa like a wart._"

He wasn't sure when the tears began, but as he pulled Ophelia's empty hand on his lap he saw a drop fall onto her thumb. "_Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou._"

The graveyard was as silent as the pale skulls below their feet. Laertes had escaped his captors as well, and now stood opposite Hamlet. One man kneeling and in tears, the other standing and looking at the man opposite him with more respect than before, both loving Ophelia. It was strangely poetic, in a way.

Queen Gertrude cleared her throat in an attempt to clear the awkwardness in the air. "_This is mere madness_," she began, but with those words, Hamlet shut his ears to her. His mother, the last family he had left, had called her only son crazy. A strange world it was when a parent wouldn't even believe their own child.

Hamlet let her voice melt into a white haze and clutched Ophelia's hand like a lifeline. He laid her palm against his cheek and closed his eyes, losing himself in the slow, steady pulse beneath her skin.

He froze.

No…it couldn't be. "Stay awhile! Hold thy tongue!" Hamlet shouted abruptly, and he felt every pair of eyes swing towards him. It didn't matter, nothing else mattered, not if he had heard correctly. He put his ear to Ophelia's wrist and held his breath, waiting…

_There_.

"She lives," he whispered in astonishment. Then, to Laertes, louder, "My lord, she yet lives!"

The man standing across from him stared with eyes as wide as twin moons. "Is't possible?"

Hamlet placed a chaste kiss to Ophelia's palm. "Tis faint, yet her pulse rings like yonder bells." He stepped further into the hold that was no longer a grave and put his arms under the maiden's shoulders. "Help me, Laertes, lord, brother and kin; four arms will make to pull her from Death's grip."

"And a foot as well, I'll gladly help thee," he replied, nodding. Then in one fluid motion he climbed into the grave and hooked his arms around her legs. Together the two men carried Ophelia out of the hole and laid her body on the weed-infested grass above them.

The king and queen were shouting over everyone else, demanding to know why Ophelia was being treated so roughly, but Hamlet left Laertes to explain to them what was happening. The prince only had eyes for his love. Of course, it would be a much better reunion if his love would wake up. Though her pulse continued to pound along her neck the maiden showed no signs of stirring.

"Ophelia," he whispered, "your lord has returned home." Naturally, she didn't reply.

"How came'st she to die?" Hamlet asked the group around him, who were still staring at him in confusion.

After a quick glance at the Doctor of Divinity, Laertes kneeled next to him. "Drown'd, prince, 'neath willows. They say she left singing."

Drowned? Hamlet clenched his eyes shut at the image his imagination presented him with. He wondered if her singing meant that she had been happy in the end, as if perhaps water was her natural realm.

But, yes, of course! A drowned man could still be saved, since departed souls do not travel as swiftly to Death's kingdom on muddy, bloody brooks. He'd learned much about the dangers of drowning, and how to revive someone, from the crew of the ship that had been ordered to take him to London. With skills he never had a chance to put into practice, Hamlet quickly set Ophelia down on the ground so she was on her back, and used his palms to pump against her chest. Laertes made indiscernible sounds of protest, but Hamlet's growl silenced him. Utmost focus was needed.

That didn't stop Laertes from almost knocking him over when Hamlet covered Ophelia's lips with his own in order to give oxygen to her lungs.

_Breathe_, he thought, the word repeating through his head in time with the pressure from his hands. _Breathe, Ophelia!_

And suddenly, on the fifth resuscitation attempt, she did.

**News flash! I am not CPR trained and for this reason you should not try and duplicate what Hamlet just did. I don't want my ignorance to be the cause of something…unpleasant. Anyway, the next chapters will be much shorter, and will hopefully have iambic pentameter. We're on our way!**


	2. Daffodils, for Rebirth

**The long and the short of it: Yes, I will be writing all of my dialogue in Shakespearean iambic pentameter, cause, why not? It may take a little longer for me to update because of that. All quotes from "Hamlet" will be in italics, but from this point onward the quotes will be from different scenes of the original play. I own nothing except my own words.**

It wasn't until Ophelia was lying on a proper bed that things finally started to calm down. After they'd brought her to the palace infirmary and the royal doctor had confirmed her health, the men in black brought Ophelia to her bedroom and left to give the royal family some peace. The Doctor of Divinity quit the room as well, muttering something about needing a drink as he shut the door.

Claudius, Gertrude, Horatio, Laertes, and Hamlet remained. The king and queen hovered anxiously at the foot of the bed, and Horatio stood behind the prince with a stiff back, not ready to let his friend out of his sight. It seemed only Hamlet and Laertes were willing to sit at Ophelia's bedside.

Hamlet, who had hardly relinquished control of Ophelia's right hand, glanced at the other people in the room and grimaced. A thick tension had settled among them, out of place in a bedroom decorated like a young girl's room and lit by late afternoon sun. If someone decided to break it this might all end in a shouting match. That was to be expected, of course. They'd just discovered that the young woman before them was actually alive; Hamlet was the only one here who hadn't wasted his breath grieving in the days prior. It was a lot to take in.

Still, Hamlet would have much preferred it if they would give him some alone time with Ophelia, just so he could gather his thoughts without anyone watching. He'd returned to Denmark ready to finish what he'd started, then Ophelia was dead, and then she was alive. Was he supposed to be happy that she could finally hear his true feelings? Remorse over how she had taken her life, and how that might as well have been his fault? Guilt over what he'd put Laertes through? Or dread, because now Ophelia would be present for what his father had tasked him to do?

Laertes held Ophelia's left hand and occasionally glanced from Ophelia to Hamlet, but he kept his thoughts to himself. Hamlet had no way of knowing it, but his declaration of love to Ophelia, and the whole "resurrecting from the grave" bit, was giving Laertes pause. He couldn't forgive the other man for his father's murder, but now Ophelia was _alive_. That fact alone changed everything. Already Laertes could feel his strong opinions begin to waver.

The two men had almost forgotten there were other people in the room, until King Claudius coughed politely. "_I pray thee, good Horatio, wait upon him._"

Horatio nodded without looking at Claudius, his true obedience lying in Hamlet rather than the king. Hamlet couldn't blame his uncle for wanting some space; Ophelia was still as white as a ghost, looking very much dead despite her pulse. And it did not escape the prince's notice that Claudius had been more twitchy than usual ever since Hamlet's return.

Laertes shook himself out of his thoughtful stupor long enough to stand and escort the king and queen to the door. (Hamlet certainly wasn't going to do it.) But as the trio left, the prince turned and nodded to his friend, indicating that he should go, too. Horatio nodded deeply to him, and then left without another word.

As soon as Queen Gertrude stepped into the hallway, all of the adrenaline and pent-up emotions left her in a heavy sigh. She whisked herself to her bedroom, trembling from exhaustion and mumbling something about taking a long nap.

Claudius, however, closed the bedroom door quickly, leaving him and Laertes in the hallway. Afternoon light shined through the sparse windows and bounced off of the stone floors and gilded columns. All was silent, as if the whole castle of Denmark was holding its breath.

"_Strengthen your patience in our last night's speech. We'll put the matter to the present push_," the king muttered fiercely, his eyes swinging like frenzied pendulums. "_This grave shall have a living monument. An hour of quiet shortly shall we see; till then in patience our preceding be._"

Laertes was confused for moment, before he remembered. Of course; he had sworn to Claudius that Hamlet would die at the tip of his sword. How could he have forgotten something that had consumed his entire being so easily? But the answer was as clear as day: Ophelia. Who could thing about killing while she still drew breath?

And now, Hamlet had said those three words. He'd seemed apologetic. Somehow, there was hope for a future for all of their blackened souls.

King Claudius bid him good day and left to find his wife, his heavy black coat standing out against the beams of light that slashed across the stone floor. But before reentering her room, Laertes hesitated outside Ophelia's door and tried to gather some semblance of strength from its cool wood. His sister was his top priority now, not the prince. And yet he couldn't ignore his father's murderer, either. From the rational part of his mind, the forgiving portion, Laertes had many questions only Hamlet could answer. One conversation, he promised himself. One chance to talk one-on-one, man-to-man, and then he would decide what to do from there.

With a deep breath, Laertes opened the door.

* * *

Hamlet breathed a sigh of relief when he heard the latch click closed. Leave Laertes and his uncle to their plotting, he thought. All that mattered now was Ophelia.

He looked down upon his beloved's face and felt his limbs sag in exhaustion. In his mind, it had taken too long for the funeral procession to turn around, Ophelia's body carried in the coffin because there had been no other option. They scarcely believed what had happened right in front of their eyes, anyway. Only when the royal physician confirmed Hamlet's words did the rest of the mourners bow their heads in stunned, but thankful, prayer. And then came the formalities of it all: the physician insisting on doing a whole health scan, the workers grumbling about the extra work as they shuffled Ophelia's body from her grave, to the infirmary, and finally to her bedroom, the queen saying "God be praised" much too often for Hamlet's liking. Why couldn't they all just leave him and Ophelia in peace? He was grateful that everyone eventually did drift off to their respective quarters, but there would be no getting rid of Ophelia's brother. Laertes would return soon, and then, well…there were many heavy words that needed to be said between him and the nobleman.

Ophelia coughed and twitched slightly, but it was nothing for him to be excited over. Apparently all half-conscious patients did that while in their state of deep sleep. She'd been _dead_ this morning…at the thought Hamlet held her hand just a little bit tighter. Ophelia might be breathing, but she was resting on the border between the world of the living and heaven. She could still die at a moment's notice.

If only she would wake up…

Hamlet flicked his eyes to the door to make sure it was shut, and then rested his forehead against the palm of her lukewarm hand in fervent prayer. "Ophelia," he whispered. "Please, wake up." His breath caught. "Come back…" The words "to me" died in his throat. He hadn't the right to say such intimate words. Not yet, and perhaps not ever.

There was so much more he needed to say, so many words that would hold greater meaning if she was awake. What magic words could heal her? Would God listen to his prayers, even after all he'd thought and done? There was not enough time on this earth, never enough, and if it was in God's power to grant he'd beg for more. Or at least for a second chance.

Laertes reentered the room as silent as he could, out of respect for Ophelia and her condition. He had expected much the same image as before, though the side of him that still despised Hamlet pictured the prince in the process of ravishing his unconscious sister. But somehow, the reality surprised him more. Ophelia was still lying on the bed, but Hamlet was clutching her hand to his face, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. His lips were moving, but if his whispers held any voice behind them Laertes couldn't hear them.

Well, the noble man thought. This certainly changed a few things.

He stepped further into the room, his heel cuffing against the rug. Hamlet visibly flinched and quickly set Ophelia's hand back on the bedcovers, the sacred moment lost. Laertes took note of the fact that the prince did not release her from his grasp, instead using his other hand to hastily wipe away his tears.

Laertes, being a gentleman, did not comment on the other man's display of raw emotion. "How does she fare?"

"Well, though methinks she blinked," Hamlet replied. His original wariness returned as the man who was essentially his rival sat in the chair on the opposite side of the bed. When Laertes took Ophelia's other hand in his own, Hamlet imagined that to an observer they must look like mirror images of each other.

They sat in silence for some time, neither knowing what to say. Or rather, what to say first. Behind Laertes the curtains billowed in the breeze from the open windows. The sound of a clock chiming in another room could be heard, but neither men seemed willing to distract themselves by counting the chimes.

When Ophelia's eyelids twitched again, Hamlet spoke. "_Hear you, sir, what is the reason that you use me thus?_" He asked. "_I loved you ever._"

Laertes had to have heard him, but he didn't answer. At the other man's silence, Hamlet turned his gaze back to Ophelia. "_But it is no matter. Let Hercules himself do what he may, the cat will mew, and dog will have his day._"

That finally drew Laertes' attention. He dismissed the last sentence as the ramblings of a part-time madman, but the first segment was something he could not ignore. "It matters as money does to a man," he said with a bitter edge to his voice. "Ophelia is belov'd of us both. We should not quarrel, not while she can't hear."

Hamlet nodded, and they lapsed into silence again. Then, "How fares mine uncle?"

Laertes shrugged. "As well as he should."

"And my mother?"

"Well; as fair as ever, though distress hath lined her face these past nights. But now you walk upon Denmark again. Methinks she might smile once more."

"For me?" Hamlet scoffed. "Not until I am my father's visage. Methinks Ophelia will make her sing."

Laertes appeared confused at his remark, but to Hamlet it made perfect sense. What had been his mother's first action at Ophelia's funeral but to lament that the maid would never be her daughter? Not to mention, the last time Queen Gertrude had seen him he'd been a shouting, deranged, murderous madman. She probably wouldn't be particularly receptive to him at the moment.

In a soft voice, Hamlet attempted to delve deeper into the other man's thoughts. "And how fare'st you, noble Laertes?"

The other man shifted in his chair. "I'll praise your name when Ophelia wakes," he muttered, effectively cutting off that topic of conversation. Once again, they let silence overtake them.

Hamlet wasn't sure how much time had passed before Laertes blatantly said, "You killed my father."

The prince, who was rubbing Ophelia's hand, paused mid-stroke. He didn't see any reason to deny the fact. "Yes," he replied.

A pause. And then, "Feel you no remorse?"

Hamlet could hear the rising anger in Laertes' voice, a tone as familiar to him as death. He'd used the same infliction himself. It was not so long ago that his father had been murdered, and he'd been the one cursing everyone he'd deemed responsible. Even Ophelia had experienced the taste of his vengeance, despite her being blameless. But Hamlet judged this to be the wrong time to tell Laertes of these facts, and continued to be apologetic. "My grief and guilt are not to be talked of. Believe me, Laertes; I stay silent not because my soul is of tarnished lead, but that my sorrow cannot be expressed more than you and I have bled already. Polonius was a good man." _Ignoring the times he spied on me_, Hamlet added silently. "Forgive me. I mistook your father for Claudius."

Laertes had also stopped rubbing each of Ophelia's fingers, and stared at Hamlet with a bewildered, but softened, gaze. "What gave you cause to slay the king?"

"How strange." Hamlet flashed him a grin. "I have oft asked myself that same question."

Either men might have spoke further, but suddenly Ophelia's head started to roll side to side. A small groan came from her lips, and her eyes clenched shut. She was finally waking up!

Laertes leaned forward in eager anticipation, but Hamlet remained clutching the maid's hand and moved no closer. Fear overtook his earlier confidence. What if she saw his face and only remembered how cruel he had been all those days ago? What if she forgave him? He'd heard his mother mention something about Ophelia being in a state of madness in the days before her death. What if her brain was still out of joint with the rest of the world? What if she didn't remember him? Which would hurt worse, to be hated or forgotten? What if?! The questions paralyzed Hamlet until he could look at nothing but his love's hand.

Ophelia muttered something unintelligible, and the prince could see fear flicker in Laertes' eyes. The other man had no wish to see his sister live out her second chance at life in a state of madness. Finally, he swallowed and spoke. "Ophelia," he said. "Dear sister, can you hear?"

The woman slowly opened her eyes, but even from Hamlet's angle he could see her face change to confusion. "Laertes," she breathed. "Brother. I'm sorry…I drown'd. Are you with me in heaven? Or some hell?"

Laertes smiled shyly and shook his head, willing away the small tears that formed in his eyes. "No, sister, neither. You can breathe again. You yet live, thanks to the prince Hamlet here." The man glanced over at Hamlet, and the prince was swallowed by Laertes' enormous gratitude. It was forgiveness. Hamlet might have killed Polonius, but if it wasn't for him, Laertes would be weeping at Ophelia's grave. Who knows what desperate acts Laertes might have committed then? But they didn't matter as much now. Yes, Polonius was dead, that much could not be erased. But Hamlet and Laertes met eyes in a new light, both beginning to wonder about the future. Ophelia was alive! Anything was possible!

However, as another furrowed brow appeared across Ophelia's beautiful face, Hamlet was reminded that the future would be severely dimmed if even one of his fears came true.

"Hamlet?" Ophelia murmured. Even the way she said his name made his heart hammer in his chest.

He felt her hand move in his grip, as if she'd attempted to move it and was surprised to find it stuck. On instinct Hamlet held it tighter, but the time for holding back out of fear was over. With a deep breath, Hamlet watched as Ophelia turned her head, and they met eyes for the first time in many (too many) days.

"Hello, Ophelia," Hamlet breathed. His love didn't seem to be breathing. "It's me, Hamlet."

He didn't even twitch, for fear that if he did the movement would startle her and she'd take her hand back. Laertes was worried as well; he'd just toyed with the idea that he and the prince could be friends, and that wouldn't be very possible if Ophelia wasn't back to her old self. But Hamlet was the only one of the two who knew of the falling out he'd had with her, so only he was worried about that becoming an issue.

Everything rested on Ophelia, and what she, and her brain, would decide to remember.

**Jeez, these chapters take a long time to make…sorry, folks. Hope you're liking my little Shakespearean adventure!**


	3. Poppies, for Eternal Sleep

_The next day…_

"Hamlet?" Horatio called lightly, his knuckles tapping the hard wood of the door as he entered Ophelia's bedroom. There he found the man in question sitting next to Ophelia, still bedridden but as lovely as ever. They were clutching their sides, laughing like children at what the other had said. Horatio smiled. Of course his lord would be here. A day had hardly gone by and the prince had yet to leave the lady's side for longer than a few moments, to the point of eating his supper in his lap. Indeed, if it wasn't for Horatio's skill at persuasion, and some well-placed threats, Hamlet might have insisted on sleeping in Ophelia's bed.

The prince wiped his eyes with one hand and met Ophelia's gaze, and Horatio amended his earlier thought. More alike to lovers than two children, he mused. In the previous years, before King Hamlet died, Horatio had been the one Hamlet crawled to when the prince was at a loss as to what to do with women. At the time, most of his yearnings and passions had pointed to Ophelia; was the same true now?

There was a part of Horatio that winced at the thought of the pair becoming something more, an unfamiliar side of him that twitched with jealousy. But he smothered the feeling and shook his head, reminding himself of why he came to seek the prince out.

Horatio closed the door behind him as he entered the room, the click catching the room's occupants' attentions. "Horatio!" Hamlet greeted, a cheerful grin taking up the lower half of his face. "Good friend! Join us!"

He nodded, and then dragged a wooden chair next to Hamlet and sat down. For some reason he felt the irrational need to be physically closer to the prince than Ophelia was. "My thanks." He nodded politely to the lady in the bed in front of him. "Ophelia. How do you fare?"

She reciprocated his nod and smiled warmly. Irrational feelings aside, it really was a good thing Ophelia had survived her attempted drowning. Her smile lit up whatever room she happened to be in. "Well. The prince was just helping me wake up."

Horatio frowned. "Should not someone be helping you to sleep?"

"Sweet friend, for shame. Hath she not slept enough?" Hamlet asked. He met his friend's eyes with a frown, but quickly turned to Ophelia's to make sure he was not being intrusive. Satisfied with the answer he found in her irises, the pair smiled shyly and Hamlet squeezed her hand.

Horatio coughed slightly and tried not to glare at the not-so-guilty pair. "Your forgiveness, Ophelia. I was wrong. Your judgment should decide my health, not mine."

Ophelia laughed, the sound echoing around him room like bells. "You are forgiven, sir. Now, what brings you?"

"Indeed." Hamlet turned to him. "This early, I'd thought you'd be out cutting heads off some most beautiful blooms." He raised both eyebrows and winked suggestively. It was a game they'd often played—before the murder of Hamlet's father took away the prince's joviality.

Horatio chuckled, but he shook his head. "No, my lord. 'Tis wonder at your escape that I do come to seek you out."

"Escape?" Ophelia asked, frowning.

Hamlet's brow furrowed, before realization dawned and the smile returned once more. "Ah! You mean from England and my exile!"

"Exile?!" Ophelia's gasped and she moved, her arms and legs scrambling on the bed so she could stand. Her eyes turned wild and frenzied, and her breath started coming out in heaving starts and stops. But less than a second later Hamlet was out of his chair and sitting facing her, his hands running up and down Ophelia's arms as he made shushing noises and murmured "It's alright, you're safe" over and over again. She ran her eyes around the room frantically, as if looking for an escape, but then her eyes focused on Hamlet again and she stilled. Instead of bolting, Ophelia let the prince settle her back against the wooden headboard. Just like that the moment was over, and Hamlet settled back in his chair with a barely-suppressed sigh.

In a brief glimpse of truth Horatio saw what Hamlet's constant presence had kept hidden: the lady Ophelia was not fully healed. Something was still wrong with her mind, a hidden madness that could appear at any moment, especially if she became stressed or scared. Now Horatio looked behind Hamlet's smiles and saw what the prince had concealed so well: dark lines beneath his eyes, and a slight stubble on his jaw from lack of a razor. His hair was disheveled, and the shirt and trousers he wore were simple and undignified, as if he'd dressed in a hurry. How long had Hamlet been in this room, really? He might have agreed to not sleep in Ophelia's bed, but that didn't mean he'd gone to his own bed, either. Horatio had no idea what state the lady had been in yesterday when she'd woken up. Had Hamlet been by her side the whole time, keeping her company with his words and his presence? Had he been the only barrier between polite conversation and the ramblings of a mad woman?

Horatio was suddenly angry. Where was Laertes? Why should the prince be the only one brave and kind enough to sit by Ophelia's side and keep her from breaking apart?

Hamlet must have seen Horatio's irritation flash in his eyes, because the prince was quick to change the topic. "_So much for this, sir: now shall you see the other;-you do remember all the circumstance?_"

"_Remember it, my lord!_" Horatio scoffed. How could he forget? He'd only spent many sleepless nights, close to tears, thinking about how his lord could be faring and if he was even still alive.

Ophelia leaned forward slightly. "Remember what?"

Hamlet bit his lip, the first sign up uncertainty Horatio had seen from the prince in days, if not weeks. "I killed Polonius, your dear father. The king sent me to England for my crimes; by some luck I escaped. All this you know."

She nodded, the dreamy look back on her face. "Yes, I know that. How did it come to pass?"

Horatio raised an eyebrow at them both. Why was Ophelia so accepting of her father's murder? An event that might have marked the beginning of Ophelia's madness all those days ago was now a topic that could be easily brushed aside. Perhaps they had a chance to talk and come to terms with the event last night? He made a mental note to question Hamlet further later and nodded at the prince to continue his tale.

"Friends_, in my heart there was a kind of fighting, that would not let me sleep; methought I lay worse than the mutines in the bilboes._" Hamlet's eyes turned distant. "_Rashly, and praised be rashness for it, let us know, our indiscretion sometimes serves us well, when our deep plots do pall: and that should learn us there's a divinity that shapes our ends, rough-hew them how we will,-_"

Horatio rolled his eyes. Hamlet had probably been born long-winded. "_That is most certain_," he chimed in, drawing the prince out of his revere.

Hamlet blinked and looked back at him, a light grin on his face at being caught in the midst of his ramblings. "_Up from my cabin_," he began again, his tone betraying the sense of wonder he felt even now, "_my sea-gown scarft about me, in the dark groped I to find out them: had my desire; finger'd their packet; and, in fine, withdrew to mine own room again: making so bold, my fears forgetting manners, to unseal their grand commission; where I found, Horatio,-o royal knavery!—an exact command,-larded with many several sorts of reasons, importing Denmark's health, and England's too, with, ho! such bugs and goblins in my life,-that, on the supervise, no leisure bated, no, not to stay the grinding of the axe, my head should be struck off._"

"Is't possible?" Horatio breathed, his heart clenching in shock. Struck off with an axe? How dare they! Those orders…horrible! Who could be terrible enough to make a man deliver his own death sentence unknowingly?

Ophelia started twitching in terror, and Horatio didn't blame her, but Hamlet's hand was in hers before she could move. He squeezed her palm and gently tugged until the lady's eyes were once again on his. Only when she'd visibly relaxed did he continue his tale, though he never relinquished his grip.

"_Here's the commission_," Hamlet said, pulling a piece of thick parchment from his pocket with his free hand and handing it to Horatio. The paper was brittle from the salt water and the wind's teeth in his fingers. "_Read it at more leisure. But wilt thou hear me how I did proceed?_"

Horatio tucked the letter into his breast pocket and nodded. "_I beseech you._"

"_Being thus be-netted round with villainies,-ere I could make a prologue to my brains, they had begun to play,-I sat me down_…" The prince shifted his buttocks on his chair for emphasis. This elicited a light giggle from Ophelia, but Horatio noticed how her eyes were more distant than ever. Somewhere along the line she'd lost interest in the conversation, even if her hand did not lose her grip on Hamlet's. "_Devised a new commission; wrote it fair:-I once did hold it, as our statists do, a baseness to write fair, and labour'd much how to forget that learning; but, sir, now it did me yeoman's service:-wilt thou know the effect of what I wrote?_"

"_Ay, my good lord_," Horatio answered on a good-natured sigh. Will there ever be a day when Hamlet would stop being the born-actor he was and just finish what he started?

The prince grinned like an imp as he recalled this part of the story. "_An earnest conjuration from the king,-as England was his faithful tributary; as love between them like the palm might flourish; as peace should still her wheaten garland wear, and stand a comma 'tween their amities; and many such-like As-es of great charge,-that, on the view and knowing of these contents, without debatement further, more or less, he should the bearers put to sudden death, not shriving-time allow'd._"

Put to death? Horatio frowned. That was a bit harsh, wasn't it? He ignored that revelation for now and instead asked the logical questions. "_How was this seal'd?_"

"_Why, even in that was heaven ordinant._" His hands came alive, illustrating his words with movement."_I had my father's signet in my purse, which was the model of that Danish seal; folded the writ up in the form of th'other; subscribed it, gave't th'impression; placed it safely, the changeling never known. Now, the next day was our sea-flight; and what to this was sequent thou know'st already._"

Horatio nodded, ignoring the fact that Ophelia was so far gone she didn't even protest about not knowing something. Was it possible to fall asleep with one's eyes open? "_So Guildenstern and Rosencrantz go to't._"

Hamlet chuckled at some private joke. "_Why, man, they did make love to this employment; they are not near my conscience; their defeat does by their own insinuation grow: 'tis dangerous when the baser nature comes between the pass and fell incensed points of mighty opposites._"

Now Horatio was truly perturbed. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were two of Hamlet's closest friends, perhaps his only other friends besides Horatio himself. True, those two men had been part of the reason for Hamlet's eviction from Denmark, but was a "kill the messenger" letter really necessary? He could have simply escaped and be done with them. The Hamlet Horatio remembered from years ago would never kill without just cause. Perhaps something had changed him on that journey, in more ways than one.

But as with the other moments of Hamlet's questionable mental state, Horatio directed his questions towards a more impartial topic. If he still desired the answers to those questions, Horatio hoped he'd find some moment to ask them. "_Why, what a king is this!_"

"_Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon,-he that hath kill'd my king, and whored my mother; popt in between th'election and my hopes; thrown out his angle or my proper life, and with such cozenage,-is't not perfect conscience to quit him with this arm? And is't not to be damn'd to let this canker of our nature come in further evil?_"

"_It must be shortly known to him from England what is the issue of the business there_," Horatio murmured, resting his head on his fist. In a way, these recent events were indeed ironic, but as Hamlet's friend is what his job to caution the prince against sudden or unnecessary violence.

"_It will be short: the interim is mine; and a man's life's no more than to say 'one.'_" Hamlet shook his head."_But I am very sorry, good Horatio, that to Laertes I forgot myself; for, by the image of my cause, I see the portraiture of his: I'll court his favours: but, sure, the bravery of his grief did put me into a towering passion._"

"'Tis most strange. Do I affect Hamlet thus?" A voice interrupted. All three pairs of eyes turned to see Laertes enter Ophelia's bedroom, unhurried but no more kept in his appearance and manor than the prince. The bottom of his eyes seemed to drag above his cheekbones.

Hamlet broke into another smile, this one more out of relief than uncontrollable joy. "Good Laertes, brother and friend. Welcome."

"You hail me as a king would to a lord," the man answered. He walked to the other side of Ophelia's bed listlessly, as if the movement was becoming a routine. By the way he fell into the chair waiting for him, Horatio wondered if it already had. "Since when has the blade in my late father been brought out to shine like golden doubloons?"

Horatio tensed and prepared to rise to his lord's aid, but Hamlet chuckled as if was nothing more than a harmless jest. "Since your late father returned it hither," Hamlet shot back. "Methinks the devil had no need for gifts."

"Nor angels neither." Laertes rubbed a hand down his face, scrubbing away any lingering traces of mirth. He looked to Ophelia. "Your health, dear sister?"

The lady looked down at him with a sparkle in her eyes that wasn't there before. "If there be gold enough on this round ball for me at the conclusion of those words, I should sit on my mound and touch white clouds."

"Justly, she answers so!" Hamlet said, grinning at her like the love-struck fool he was. Then he turned to Laertes and asked, "Have you talked with mine uncle?"

"No, my good lord, he only wishes for you."

"Then I'll none," Hamlet answered, his voice clipped. He turned back to his love without another word.

Horatio rolled his eyes at the prince's response. At least some things were bound to hold true. "Is anything the matter, Laertes?" He asked, hoping to God that it wouldn't require him dragging his lord anywhere. He wasn't particularly strong.

Laertes shrugged, and though his eyes were for Ophelia as well he had the courtesy to give Horatio some amount of attention. "Only that the king inquires after the ill-fated voyage of Prince Hamlet." He raised an eyebrow at the prince opposite him. "The wind whispers of pirates on the sea."

"More like ill-fated rats than pirates be," Hamlet murmured. Then he firmly shook his head, stood up, and gave Laertes his most charming grin. "Shall we walk out, and Horatio, too?" He lowered his voice and, glancing at Ophelia, added, "I feel there be more news to come to light."

"And in the sun, burn'd," Laertes replied, nodding like he was making a solemn promise.

Though he had no idea what was going on, Horatio didn't think it wise trust Ophelia's brother with the prince alone. He stood with the other man and said, "We will go with thee."

The three men turned to go, but then they heard a soft voice say, "No…"

Horatio turned, but kept his distance at the foot of the bed while Hamlet went back to stand next to Ophelia. He was surprised when Laertes joined him there, and did not go to his sister's side.

"Fear not, fair Ophelia. Take thy rest," Hamlet whispered in a voice sewn with silk threads. One hand lowered the lady's outstretched arm, and the other lightly caressed her cheek.

Laertes stiffened, but made no move to interfere. Horatio added it to his growing list of things to find out at a later time.

With a few more soothing words and touches, Ophelia consented to lying back down in her bed. Just before leaving, the prince uttered a phrase that confused Horatio: "Remember, you are forever your own."

Smiled, and her eye slid shut. Hamlet set her hand down beside her and joined the men, his grin returning faster than the glint in his eyes did. He left the room first, followed by Laertes, and Horatio taking up the rear.

As soon as Hamlet left Ophelia's bedroom, his eyes narrowed. "Be swift; afore she wakes we'll exchange tongues."

The two men began their small argument mere feet from the door, making no move to "take a walk" as Hamlet had first suggested. Horatio rolled his eyes at his lord's newfound love for secrecy, but as was becoming customary, did not comment on it.

Just before he closed the door to the lady's bedroom, Horatio took one last look at Ophelia. She looked so peaceful, already asleep on her bed, beautiful despite the paleness that still ringed her once-rosy cheeks. But her eyes were still muted and dull, occasionally sparkling with life before becoming shrouded in fog once more. Ophelia was alive, yes, but Horatio couldn't find himself to be glad for this news. Her eyes, her life and soul, were still asleep. It was as if she had never truly woken up.


	4. Thyme, for Strength and Courage

**Oh, it has been a while, hasn't it? Sincerest apologies – college consumes time like a savage beast. Huge thanks to KateAndromeda, Lily Dragon, Painted Orchid, confused-cariad, ghostgirl19, and many others. Your comments have been my fuel, no matter how long ago you made them, and for that, I am forever grateful. Now, onwards!**

The minute the door clicked shut, Laertes rounded on Hamlet. "How doth she fair?" He hissed, as if worried his sickly sister would hear. "Tell me in manner most frank."

"Hold thy flapping; fie, you'll teach Icarus." The prince flashed a grin. "Iaso will see to her ills. Have faith – I've ne'er seen a drown'd woman so light."

Despite his lack of knowledge on the topic, Horatio felt his shoulders sag in relief. If his closest friend could be so calm, surely Ophelia was out of danger.

Then Hamlet's face darkened. "Tis in her mind that I see darkness now. Have you not seen't? That fog…" An unreadable emotion passed through his eyes and he blinked hard. "That curse'ed fog."

He stared hard at Laertes, and suddenly he was the spitting image of King Hamlet, the former: sharp eyes, determined jaw, unforgiving tone, and all. "How long hath she been so lost? Tell me all."

And so, in emotional starts and stops, Laertes told Hamlet everything. The aftermath of Polonius' death, Ophelia's apparent madness, her obsession with flowers, to the moment Queen Gertrude brought news of her being found face down in a brook. "The rest, you know," he concluded sadly, before brightening slightly. "Yet now my words mean naught. My sister lives; what a most bless'ed day."

Hamlet smiled slightly and nodded in acknowledgement, but he remained troubled. "But wherefore? How was Ophelia lost, from us, from nature, from even herself?"

"We know not," the young lord confessed, "for she fell without a trace. The moon retained its orb from craze'd to death."

"I know not what to make of her madness," Horatio murmured. "Death made apparent."

"Then is life forgot? Nay, Horatio, say it is not so." Hamlet snapped, stress sharpening his tongue to unwelcome points. His mind was a whirlwind. If Ophelia's madness had no known source, they had no way of knowing if there was a problem they should be addressing. He, Laertes, and Horatio could be facing something they had no way of curing.

He shook away childhood memories, stories he'd heard about people who'd lost their wits somehow and were locked up far away, never to be seen again. Hamlet refused to even consider such an ending for his love. "I know not if her state can be buried," he said, "but I shall try, and you both shall witness. I will carry our Ophelia home…" He stared at the door (through it, to Ophelia in her bed) with eyes of iron resolve. "Or else shall our madness perish as one."

Neither man doubted his word.

* * *

They continued to speak of Ophelia's condition, but it soon became clear that they couldn't proceed until she was well enough to function on her own. Laertes, having his own matters to attend to (matters that had fallen to him since his father's death), eventually bid his farewells, promising to come for Hamlet at midnight. It seemed they took turns watching over her, acting as Ophelia's most loyal guardians. Horatio reminded himself to ask if he might take part, if only so the lords would get as good a rest as their charge.

With Laertes gone, Hamlet made to open the wooden door, but Horatio quickly turned him towards the kitchens. "I refuse to be stuffed like a roast pig," Hamlet grumbled, but he submitted without resistance. His lanky frame and rumbling stomach betrayed him too easily.

Burning with curiosity, Horatio let only a few moments pass before he spoke. "Call Laertes a brother? Confidant? Friend? And Ophelia, lover most dear? What hath occurred here to cause such a change? When last we spoke you were most distracted."

"When last we spoke…" Hamlet gave a guilty smile and tapped his temple with his finger. "'Twas knife and madness here."

Horatio laughed coldly. "Ay, and it seems the devil hath arrived. Wilt thou forsake your friends so easily? Rosencrantz and Guildenstern…" He shook his head sadly. "The poor souls."

Hamlet's eyes turned hard and cold. "Men of little depth are no friends of mine. They took my uncle's words and writ them down, ne'er to be erased. They became like him, and, should they appear here, I'd spit on them."

"And what am I, your tilted, Danish fool?" Horatio had to stop, forcing the prince to do the same and face him head on. "Shall I wait upon you and Laertes? Shall I come and go at your leisure, my—"

"No, no!" At least he had the grace to look ashamed. "Nay, Horatio, forbear it. My distraction hath overtaken me; how dare I let my strife come between us! Forgive me, good friend, my Horatio. Let me speak a word and I will tell you all that past twixst me and Laertes, and Ophelia, too, this past evening."

He stared deep into Hamlet's eyes, searching for some hint of foul play, but finally nodded when he found none. "Then do tell all," Horatio said, sitting down on a nearby felted bench. "Your stomach shall keep time."

Hamlet smiled gratefully and joined him on the bench, eager to share yet another story. "First I say how Ophelia awoke. In a daze she looked about, unseeing; she did know Laertes but little else. Then my name reaches her ears, cries, 'Hamlet!', and rushes to my arms quick, shaking so; her warm tears made such marks on my doublet. Laertes, as confused as I, sat dumb and we calmed her with prayers of gratitude. From her we gleaned that she thought I had died! She wept to see me thus, in case I had."

"Was she in heaven?" Horatio asked softly. "Or in Hell?"

The prince stared into his clasped hands, his haunted eyes and clenched jaw barely visible. "Never ask," he whispered.

A shiver went up Horatio's spine at the thought. Had they asked her that question? Had they gotten an answer, and found it too terrifying to bring up again? Or worse, had she been in neither? Perhaps a purgatory especially horrible for those who had taken their own life?

He was almost glad when Hamlet shook himself out from his stupor and forced the conversation onwards. "But as you see, that passed quickly enough. As she breathes, so does Laertes' relief; with her awake we shook hands as brothers. In his eyes, distrust died, as it should be; sense, in all manners, returned for us both. I breathe easy now, though I know not why."

Horatio smiled at that comment, knowing what the reason was for that even if Hamlet refused to admit it. "She lives; we are all grateful for such grace."

A soft smile danced across the prince's face, and he nodded. Suddenly he looked like a little boy again, shy at the mention of his lady love and as bold and daring as a young solider off to war. Somewhere along the way, Horatio mused, thoughts replaced action. He briefly wondered when that transition had taken place, and why he hadn't noticed it as fully before. Or perhaps it was always there, simmering below the surface, just waiting for a murder-in-the-family kind of catalyst to bring it to light.

"Why not her father's name spark such…harsh moods?" Horatio prompted.

Hamlet raised his eyebrows and blew out a puff of air before replying. "Do prepare yourself for some amazement. Laertes and myself did wonder thus, and wouldst thou believe but her father, noble Polonius, hath been death's cause! All through both their lives, his hands can be found. A tighter fist wounds on her as one leaves: her brother, Laertes, you remember, left for Paris, followed by a shadow – his father's, as he discovered one night. Left with no one, Ophelia panics; tis no wonder she rejected me thus, and protected her father from my rage. My confusion, turned on her and all else…" He grinned. "A wonder you all can look at me still."

"That thought has oft crossed my mind, many times," Horatio muttered, and they both chuckled. "But how camst her to forsake her own life?"

"Tragically, as it would seem by her words. In a rare state of sanity and awe, she revealed, both to us and herself, that her father's death struck her most strangely. A northern seagull in a southern wood could not have been as lost as she was then. She said little else of the matter, then, or, as could be, she dared not think on it, but the very fact of her speech is this: she is at peace with her father's murder, and, as it is so, with me and her kin."

"She must have met him in another life to exchange words of sorrow and forgiveness." Horatio frowned. "Yet no cause for her distracted state now?"

Hamlet sighed, nodded, and ran his hand through his hair. He didn't seem to notice (or mind) when it came away stained, the marks of long, harsh travel not yet cleansed by a proper bath. "She wakes with starts and stops, gasping for air in a manner most disturbed and fearful. That is why Laertes and I take rounds: if we do not sooth her cries, no one will."

At that moment, a man turned the corner ahead of them and Hamlet, ever one for secrecy, said nothing more. A courtier, clearly, and their least favorite of Claudius' courtiers at that. Osric prided himself on his ability to uphold several codes of honor, to the point of obsession. It was oh so easy for two clever, trickster-minded, like themselves, to goad him into a temper – Osric wasn't known as the "angry yellow squash" for nothing.

"_Peace; who comes here?_" Horatio muttered. "_Enter young Osric, a courtier._" He heard Hamlet stifle a laugh behind his hand at his friend's mischievous tone.

Oblivious as always, Osric stepped in front of them and clapped his heels together. In unison both Hamlet and Horatio stood to match him, clapped their own heels together and stood as straight as a rod, maybe straighter.

There was that faint tinge of yellow in his cheeks they'd both come to know so well. With great stiffness, Osric reported, "_Your lordship is right welcome back to Denmark._"

"_I humbly thank you, sir_," Hamlet replied, ever formal. He turned to Horatio. "_Dost know this water-fly?_"

Without missing a beat, he said, "_No, my good lord._"

"_Thy state is the more gracious; for 'tis a vice to know him._" That's my lord prince, practiced as ever, Horatio thought as he worked on keeping his own smile hidden. "_He hath much land, and fertile: let be lord of beasts, and his crib shall stand at the king's mess: 'tis a chough; but, as I say, spacious in the possession of dirt._"

"_Sweet lord, if your lordship were at leisure_," Osric began again, his fists shaking at his sides, "_I should impart a thing to you from his majesty._"

Hamlet nodded deeply, the tips of his hair intentionally brushing against the courtier's nose. "_I will receive it with all diligence of spirit._" He nodded at the other man's hat, a ridiculous cap that matched his emerald green coat and had a long feather sticking out the top. Horatio had the uncanny urge to pull at it. "_Put your bonnet to his right use; 'tis for the head._"

Perhaps Osric could have refused – it might have been better in the long run. But some code of honor probably told him that he shouldn't refuse anything from a noble of such high standing. He pulled off his cap (the feather bobbed up and down so very, very much) and said, "_I thank your lordship, 'tis very hot._"

"_No, believe me, 'tis very cold_." He leaned closer to Horatio, and he, catching on to his lord's game, followed suite. "_The wind is northerly._"

The courtier flexed his fingers around the brim of his cap and he swiftly replied, "_It is indifferent cold, my lord, indeed._"

"_Methinks it is very sultry and hot for my complexion._"

"_Exceedingly, my lord_," Osric parroted back through gritted teeth. Horatio, tired of standing straight for so long (how ever did this man do it?), began pacing behind the fellow. Hamlet followed the action as smoothly as if they had planned this in advance, trapping the poor courtier in his own standards. "_It is very sultry, as't were, I cannot tell how_," the courtier continued, still attempting to do his duty."_But, my lord, his majesty bade me signify to you—_"

"_I beseech you, remember._" Hamlet barked, impatience turning his tone harsh.

"_My lord, his majesty commended…_" He paused to take a hearty breath. "_That you attend him in _his rooms."

Hamlet raised an eyebrow at him. "Is't all?"

"Yes, my lord." Osric clicked his heels once more and lifted his proud, tiny, hairless chin high, his cap gripped with white-knuckles by his side. Horatio tried not to stare too hard at the back of the courtier's outfit, which seemed to be tied so close to his body it was a wonder the fabric had not melded into his skin.

He paused for a moment, the better to fix the poor man with a hard stare, before Hamlet shrugged his shoulders and sighed. "Better to eat now then be choked later. _To this effect, sir; after what flourish your nature will._"

"_I commend my duty to your lordship_," the courtier replied, though it looked like it pained him greatly to say so.

"_Yours, yours_," Hamlet mumbled, waving him away. With yet another click of the heels, Osric put his hat back on his head, swiveled, and walked away, not even pausing to give Horatio enough time to move out of the way. The minute he had turned the corner, both men broke down in laughter, leaning forward and gripping their sides with the weight of their mirth. Oh, it was good to laugh again! Horatio couldn't remember the last time they had acted like boys again. It was freeing, in a way, and he quietly promised himself that he would never let his lord go this long without a proper laugh again.

"_He does well to commend it himself_," Hamlet said, wiping his eyes with his finger. "_There are no tongues else for's turn._"

"_This lapwig runs away with the shell on his head_!"

"_He did comply with his dug before he sucked it_," the prince added, and such a comment sent them into youthful giggles once more.

Moments later, sitting on the felted bench once more, the courtier's words struck home. "_It must be shortly known to him from England what is the issue of the business there_," Horatio said.

Hamlet nodded, but shrugged away the worry nonetheless. "_It will be short: the interim is mine; and a man's life's no more than to say One._ And, as he speaks down, so will I to him. There is more in this head than twixst his legs."

Before Horatio could react to such a shrewd insult, or even attempt to comprehend the prince's words, Hamlet jumped up from the bench and gave him a mock salute. "Wish me time, err I seek seconds to pass! And eat, or we'll starve at the lord's table."

And with a final wave, his lord was gone, whistling a tune as he turned a corner and disappeared further into the castle. Horatio sighed – he'd eat, alright. But as he started on the path towards the kitchens, he could feel himself already planning a way to save some for the Danish prince.


	5. Oleanders, for Caution

**This would have tagged along with the last chapter, but in the end I decided to save this bit for a shorter-than-normal chapter 5. For those of you wondering where Hamlet's angst went, don't worry, that's on its way. Enjoy!**

If Hamlet could have walked slower, he would have. But he actually did have something important to tell his uncle, and it was rather time sensitive – an approaching army with an aggressive, trigger-happy, high-standing commander fell under that category, right? As such he too-soon found himself outside the doors to his uncle's quarters. They were large, broad things, made of dark wood and the sweat of a highly-paid craftsman. Hamlet should know; these used to be his father's rooms, and his father's doors. The quarters of a king, he mused. When had he seen the inside of these doors last? He must have been too young to remember it.

The memory, or lack thereof, strengthened his resolve. Claudius was not the rightful ruler, this was certain. And although killing had lost much of its appeal since Ophelia's revival, this false king deserved to be taken down, somehow. Hamlet just had to figure out how.

Ophelia did not deserve to live out her second chance of life under the rule of a licentious tyrant.

Taking a deep breath, he swung open both doors at once. It did not cross his mind that mere days ago, the Hamlet of then would never have had the courage to do what he was doing now.

If Hamlet had to describe the interior of his uncle's quarters, he would call them wholly unremarkable. Not because they were drab or empty, but because they were so rich and splendid in appearance that it was impossible to remember everything inside upon leaving. An enormous, four-posted bed in the corner, gilded with gold and expensive wood? A closet no doubt filled with heavy garments of the utmost quality? Stone walls garnished with elegant banners and colorful tapestries? A mirror decorated with the carved faces of the great Danish kings of old? With such a display of wealth, the man standing in the middle of the room seemed entirely unnecessary.

"Good morrow, dear uncle," Hamlet proclaimed, casually stepping further into the room. "The king, the king! He sends for his dogs and they bring him cats." He grinned and tilted his chin in thought. "Though methinks you may need them. Here there be rats—and not all of them reside behind walls."

Claudius continued to stare at him without flinching. After a few moments of drawn-out silence, he asked, "Did the king receive you well?"

"Which king, king?"

"The English king."

"English?" Hamlet scoffed. "Never trust them."

His uncle clasped his hands behind his back – a side effect of his effort to maintain his patience, no doubt. "Did he receive you?"

"No, sir. The scoundrel."

"Where is Rosencrantz and Guildenstern?"

"There."

For the first time (as far as Hamlet could tell) Claudius blinked. Lines of frustration grew deeper on his balding forehead. "Where?" He grunted.

Without fully realizing it, Hamlet began walking around the room, staying downwind of his irritated uncle. He stared at tapestries and furniture, all in an effort to buy him some time, and test the waters of his uncle's mind. This wasn't a social call, Hamlet had known that the minute Osric came towards him; this was an interrogation.

"With the king," Hamlet replied. "The English king." He shrugged. "Methinks."

"Wherefore," Claudius ground out through clenched teeth, "did they leave you?"

With an even tone, Hamlet looked right at his uncle and answered, "The noose got them."

Before Claudius could formulate an incredulous reply to that statement, Hamlet continued. "But all this is no matter; your letter? No doubt received by the king of England. Your cohorts? Gone, never to trouble us. As for myself, pirates, and two sore feet – here I stand, humble, at your gracious feet." He twirled on his foot and walked towards the other side of the room. "And yet there be more for your ears to hear – a Norwegian army marches with spears and swords to knock down the walls of Poland. But beware of Fortinbras of Norway, who hath not lost his ire against us."

"You deceive me, a trick!" Claudius cried, stepping forward until his was practically nose to nose with his nephew.

Hamlet stood his ground. "Nay, my uncle. And as surely as the wind blows northwards he will not leave these lands without quarrel."

They stared at one another, and then Claudius turned away, his neck and shoulders as stiff as wooden beams. Hamlet felt the slightest bit of sympathy for the man, an emotion that greatly surprised him, but how could he not? Rightful or not, Claudius was the king, and he hadn't exactly had a peaceful ruling these past few weeks. But now an army would be marching through and he could do little else besides give them safe passage and pray it didn't all go to shite.

But what if he could do more?

"If I could be the bringer of good news, I would be happy with myself for once," Hamlet said. He stepped forward. "But all is not lost! Ride out to meet him! Display the might of Denmark for all to see. He shall decide which course is nobler: ride to Poland, or limp back to Norway."

His uncle stood stock still, facing away from him. Then, slowly, Claudius turned around. He stared at Hamlet with an unreadable expression, a dense mixture of anxiousness, anger, and surprise.

"If what you say be true…" Claudius said. "Then hie you hence. As of today, you are a prisoner – guards!"

At his call two burly guardsmen marched through the door behind Hamlet. "Yes, my lord?" They said in unison.

"Gentlemen, confine Hamlet to these grounds, to be watched at all hours of the day. I ride to meet Norway on our own land, with an army fit to make them tremble behind. Go! Sound the battle cry of Denmark."

"We obey," the guard on Hamlet's right intoned, before grabbing the prince roughly be the shoulder and leading him out of the king's quarters.

Even with guards flanking him on either side, Hamlet found it in himself to smile. Confined to the castle! What joy! He could have all the time in the world to help Ophelia heal. And with Claudius away, Denmark might actually be fun again.

As they turned a corner, he did a little skip. He would enjoy this break from acting deranged. And if his uncle died in battle, well, wouldn't that just be the strangest coincidence?


	6. Daisies, for Loyal Love

**Ah, college – you never cease. Onward to the next chapter! It may be short, but I decided to cut it off here in order to set the stage for everything else.**

News of Fortinbras and his army's impending arrival spread through the castle faster than that man could travel. By noon of the following day the servants and soldiers were abuzz with preparation, swarming to and fro in an effort to have all the necessary provisions ready by the following day. King Claudius' orders were very clear: the army of Denmark was to march as soon as possible. What was uncertain (and what made Hamlet giggle like a church girl) was whether or not there'd be a battle at all.

But, of course, that meant that another certain bit of news was also common knowledge.

"A prisoner?!" Hortaio shouted for the third time. His pacing once again drew him near his prince and away again. "You? The prince of Denmark…why, your dear father just rolled thrice over."

Hamlet tried not to rolls his eyes as Hortaio walked by again, leaning against a wall so he wouldn't be in the way of his friend's distracted state. They were in Hamlet's rooms, stuck there until the army was away so he couldn't interfere. Horatio suddenly swung around to face him. "And your dear mother, the queen? Go to her—"

"I shall not trouble her, Horatio," Hamlet replied, smacking his teeth with each word. He grinned wickedly and winked. "Now does she _ride_ my uncle to glory, saving him from _hard_ distractions."

"Dear God," his friend moaned, finally giving up to settle himself on a nearby bench. "We are lost."

The prince walked to Horatio and patted the troubled man's head. "Nay, my friend. Some…" He looked up at his door, which, in a distant, spiritual way, led to Ophelia's door. "May be found."

There was a brief pause upon hearing his lord's tone, then Horatio lifted his head and grinned, his expression changing from upset to coy in a matter of heartbeats. "You think on her?"

"Think? Nay, I dote on her." Hamlet stumbled backwards and collapsed onto his plush bed, his sigh reverberating throughout the room. "Her face brightens my harsh nightmares of late—starry-eyed she saves me from my own demons; mourning doves cannot sing if she be sad, thus do I attend her many a night to please her, as a servant to a lord." He lifted his head and stared at his friend, confusion writ across his face. "Methinks I wish to serve her, forever."

Horatio smiled softly. "My lord, you have already served her thus; your presence, alarming as it may be, hath soothed her in ways none can comprehend." An unreadable expression crossed his face. "It takes a strong heart to serve forever."

"Speak you from experience?"

Due to his position on the bed, Hamlet missed his friend's longing glance in his direction. "Aye, my lord."

They sat in silence for a moment, both contemplating different people. Then the prince proclaimed, "I do think I'm in love her."

Without hesitation, Horatio replied, "I know."

* * *

The king left the following day as ordered, with only a brief gathering of lords and ladies to see him and his army off. Ophelia didn't attend, as her revival still provoked much suspicion from the rest of the nobles, but there was no such excuse for her brother and the returned prince of Denmark. Hamlet fought the whole time his servants dressed him, until a sharp smack from Horatio reduced him to grumbling and complaining. Only the promise of a castle void of guards and his uncle kept him in check.

All the same, he did look the part. Horatio caught Hamlet looking at himself in the mirror more than once, admiring the way his deep red cape and doublet hugged his rather slim figure.

At the king's sendoff, Queen Gertrude kissed her husband on the cheek and wished him well. Hamlet settled on shaking hands with his uncle, while Laertes and Horatio bowed in turn. It was a rather long and tedious affair – the soldiers' horses were stamping their hooves and snorting at each other, fresh from the stables and ready to ride. The dust from their hooves hung over the armored soldiers like a cloud. It didn't help that it was particularly hot that day; Horatio wished tradition didn't force him to wear so many layers. Lord knows how his lord was coping.

As if he could sense his friend's thoughts, Hamlet glanced at Horatio and mimicked the panting face of a dog. They laughed silently, a tiny moment of joviality, while Queen Gertrude glared and Laertes attempted to ignore. As the prince turned forwards once more, Horatio tried his best not to stare at Hamlet's backside. A difficult thing to resist, really – his black trousers were well-tailored. Very…_tight_.

Finally the formalities concluded, and the king mounted his black steed and made for the gate. They stood in a line with the other nobles and waved at his retreating back, the procession of horses and men taking nearly as long as the initial ceremony, until at last the outer court was empty once more.

Unsurprisingly, Hamlet turned on his heel and left as soon as the nobles began muttering amongst themselves. Horatio watched his lord practically skip away, singing under his breath, "I'm off to see my lady love on Christmas Day, on Christmas Day; I'm off to see my lady love on Christmas Day in the mor-ning…"


	7. Rosemary, for Rememberance

**Yes, I'm still alive, just at a loss for time, as per usual – college degrees are very time consuming and mentally draining, it turns out. This past summer I studied in London and got to take classes in Shakespearian literature and the English monarchy, as well as attend plays at the Globe Theatre. Suffice it to say it did wonders for my inspiration! Thank you for those of you who are still reading this tedious beast of creation – I'm very, very grateful. Please keep writing, all of you – people may say it doesn't matter, but if it matters to you, then it's always worth it.**

"HAMLET." A pause. "HAMLET!"

The prince's eyes flew open and he lurched forward in his bed, before falling back into the covers when he wasn't met with any resistance. He was in his room, alone. The sun was streaming through his window, and outside he could hear the distant sounds of the kitchen. But…there had been a voice in his dream. Someone had been shouting for him, but he couldn't reach them. He could've sworn it'd sounded like—

"Good morrow, my lord prince! How do you fair?"

Hamlet jumped and glared at Sammy, who's head was sticking out of his now-open bedroom door. The smile on boy's face was absolutely disgusting, and he'd already started talking again, so what was the point of ever replying? "The sun heralds a new day – and a meal!"

That joke was so old he was surprised it didn't add wrinkles to the lad's face. The prince Hamlet followed his new breakfast routine with an air of graceful annoyance. Sammy, the grossly cheery serving boy, would wake him up as soon as the sun rose. Guards would supervise his daily routine, save bathing and the use of the chamber pot. He would then have his breakfast brought to him (a meager porridge and slice of ham, nothing special), ending with a sweep of his room.

But he did not complain, for after it was all over, he was released to wander the castle to his heart's content. He was easily the most well-off prisoner in the castle, nay, the whole country. By midday he was practically a prince again, exploring the castle he had been away from for so long, and eating as many meals as he wished. The only reminders that he was still a prisoner were these morning traditions…and his confinement to the castle.

With his breakfast complete, he made his way to the room he'd rather sleep in. Not that Laertes would ever let him, of course.

The castle was as quiet as was normally was during times of war, the sound of Hamlet's heels echoing like thunderclaps off the stone walls. Even the staff had little to do once most of the men were gone. The only royalty left to serve were Hamlet (as described above), Laertes, Ophelia (only the bravest servants volunteered for that job), and…

Queen Gertrude. Right on cue Hamlet turned and watched her come down the staircase in the northeast tower. She paused, glanced at her son, looked as if she was about to say something…and then sighed and continued walking down the steps.

Hamlet was at a loss as to what to do about his mother. When they approached each other from opposite ends of a hall, she'd find a door to escape to or blatantly turn around. When Hamlet sat the table for supper, she'd leave even if she wasn't finished eating. She never frowned at him, but never smiled either. They were trapped in a silent stasis of their own creation. But how could Hamlet try and approach her after everything he said and did? If she was terrified of him, he'd understand. But what he couldn't stand was this constant silent treatment – Hamlet would take weeks of arguments over this incessant torture.

Not only that, but he had no idea where she went during the day. The servants in her room were always denying him entry to her room, claiming she was asleep or "out", and never allowed him to follow his mother for more than a few feet. Hamlet wasn't one to start fights, and therefore did not pursue the issue. Perhaps this was just what she did when she didn't have Claudius to hid behind.

The prince watched the stairs she had just descended for a moment, but then turned away as he remembered his original goal. Today was a momentous day for his lady.

* * *

"Again, perhaps?"

"Hold your tongue, Laertes, or I'll use it as a balm for my aches."

"The lady speaks the truth. Let her alone!"

"See you do the same, prince, my patience thins!"

"I've been wounded by my lady love," Hamlet retorted, feigning a stab in the heart. Ophelia blushed from his wording, but as usual, the subject was dropped. One just didn't discuss such things in the public realm of courtly love.

"Hold your mirth, love birds," Laertes muttered as he rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "We're not walking yet."

Ophelia smiled. It was a rare and beautiful occurrence, one that Hamlet craved more than light itself. "I will be, brother," she said. "Such promise I hold! An egg ne'er hold so much life as I do."

"Well put," Hamlet replied, casting a gentle, love-touched smile her way. "And we'll see it so."

Very carefully, he took her right hand and placed it on his shoulder, Laertes mirroring his actions on her other side. He slid close to her, until her hair tickled his ear. "Lead us hence?" He murmured.

And very soon, she did.

* * *

This practice continued for many weeks, past the only two bits of news they received from the front: that the Norwegian army had been sighted, and that "Denmark was engaged". Hamlet and Laertes would take turns walking with their charge throughout the castle (under supervision by guards in Hamlet's case). All in all, Ophelia was recovering wonderfully. She was a shining light in the gloomy castle, brightening the halls with her smile and laughter.

Perhaps most importantly, she brought Hamlet and Laertes together. They had no time for lingering distrust when working towards the shared goal of making their lady well again.

Because although Ophelia hated to admit it, she was not yet completely healed. Laertes would be the first to admit that he and the prince did hang on her a little too much, but without them, the lady was prone to fits of disorienting panic. She was very uncomfortable in large, open spaces such as the great hall, and needed a maid servant to help her in the mornings and at night. No one wanted to tread lightly around her, but at the same time, how could anyone feel at ease with someone who could change attitudes so quickly and unexpectedly?

At the end of the day, however, there was always improvement. Ophelia was such a fast learner that they were exploring the castle grounds within a week. She still loved flowers, and spent many days educating her guides about their names, meanings, and properties. Some days she would talk about everything, from her childhood memories to big ideas she'd never fully understood, such as religion and philosophy. And then there were other days when she would be utterly silent – never stoic nor unfriendly, but verbally unresponsive all the same.

It was on one of these "quiet days" that Hamlet noticed a change in Ophelia. As usual she would give non-verbal cues such as nods or smiles, but unlike previous outings she began to be nervous around _him_. As if he was the one that could start spouting madness at any moment!

"Hath she spoken of ought to you? At all?" Hamlet asked Laertes one day while Ophelia was taking an afternoon rest. "You see her as much as I do, my friend."

"She treats me kindly, and I her," he replied. He shrugged. "'Tis strange."

But this trend continued for several days, until it got to the point where Ophelia would speak with Laertes at great lengths but not say a word to him.

Finally, on one hot, sunny day, Hamlet could take it no longer. He opened his mouth to question her (perhaps his mother had filled her head with lies about him – anything was possible) when Ophelia beat him to it:

"Hamlet—" (Hearing his name come out of her mouth was enough to give him pause) "—please take me to the creek. My creek."

He knew which creek she referred to. Everyone did. It was the one she was found drowned in – whether by accident or on purpose no one knew for sure. She'd never brought it up before, and neither had anyone else, but she'd always been careful to steer Hamlet and Laertes away from the western part of the castle grounds, where that creek formed a border between the woods and the gardens. No doubt it was a place of great emotional trauma for her; no doubt it might take months or even years before she would feel ready to approach it once more.

But after only a couple weeks?

"My lady, are you certain? 'Tis early…mayhaps I should call your brother here—"

"No." Ophelia's eyes blazed with a determination the prince had never seen before, and could only admire in awe.

With a respectful nod, they made their way west.

She hesitated only once, but otherwise strode forth with all the confidence she could muster. Hamlet hung back and simply observed his love, ready to support her physically as well as mentally should she require it. Before long the woodland trees towered above them, the flowers and grasses became more wild and untamed, and the creek stretched far and wide in front of them.

Ophelia was silent and still. She watched the water carefully, an unreadable expression on her face. She was so far removed from the physical world that she didn't even shiver when a cold wind blew through.

Hamlet was quiet, too. This moment, whatever it was, was sacred; he felt wholly unworthy to be a part of it.

Ophelia was brave enough to break the silence. "I perished 'neath these waters."

The Danish prince nodded. "Yes, 'tis true." He stepped towards her until they were shoulder to shoulder. "Yet did I revive you, Ophelia. Epione smiles to see thee well."

"Am I?"

The question was so simple, and yet…that was the question, wasn't it? She was alive, but for a moment, she wasn't. Even before drowning her mind had left this world, and no one was sure how much had come back. If she was indeed "well", they shouldn't feel the need to consistently watch her for signs of a breakdown. Right?

But watching her, here, standing next to the creek that held such significance for her, Hamlet knew his answer immediately.

He turned her and held her hands firmly in his grasp. "By my troth, my bosom, my soul, you are," he told her. "Aphrodite would tremble to see you—"

"And yet are my stars hazy; they flicker." She couldn't take her eyes of the water. "I wander as a moth in darkness deep, hidden from friend, foe; from my very self." She waved a hand around her face, as if an unseen veil obscured it. "Oh, how my pretty remembrances hurt me with hidden thorns. God praise you both; yet do I fear you will tire of me and leave me to my foggy nights and days; and yet do I despise myself for this, that which clings to the vine that ripens it until rot o'ercomes them both. Woe is me! Why should I weep to be dismissed by hell?"

Hamlet used his hand to gently tug her chin back to him without any hesitation. "Doth not the scratch heal before the limb? Shall both leave scars on thy soul? 'Tis not so. As the wise man said, time doth heal all; yet do not despair, my lady, nor fear—Laertes and I will not let you fall."

The only other sound that could be heard was the whispering brook beside them; even the birds seemed to be listening. He took a deep breath, and wished he could absorb the sunlight for courage. "His soul would cross mountains and seas for you if it meant you could be well, as will I; he holds a great love for you…as do I."

Ophelia giggled, and Hamlet couldn't help but chuckle with her. How childlike those words sounded coming out of his mouth! He wished he could put every feeling he had for her into words, but it turned out he had much better knack for soliloquies than with conversation.

"My courting of you was madness, 'tis true," he continued. Ophelia nodded in understanding, and her calm acceptance made him want to spend his entire life devoted to making up for his terrible mistakes. "Nor am I worthy of half your fair sum."

She opened her mouth as if to retort, but the prince just shook his head and gripped her hands tighter. "Ophelia, I behold you in awe, and therefore in such profound reverence I know not what to say. Except that you are—"

"Forever my own," Ophelia murmured.

He nodded. "Most assuredly. You are beautiful, passionate, strong; yet do I bend my knees and cry for your forgiveness; forbear me. I am sorry for the wrongs I've caused thee."

Ophelia smiled, and released his hand so that she could caress his cheek. Her skin smelled of the flowers she'd picked that day, and felt soft against his afternoon stubble. "My thanks, gracious Hamlet, yet do stand tall; the harm done to the other has no bounds. And yet—" A shy smile came upon her face. "Should we live our days to forgive, together, then will I be most content."

Hamlet was silent in shock as he let those words sink in, and then they were both smiling, grinning like loons at each other and at their good fortune. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and they both leaned into each other and sighed in happiness.

After a few moments, he became aware of the creek's gurgle once more, and he got an idea. "My lady love," he began, "do you enjoy water?"

He felt Ophelia tense, but her response was free of hesitation. "Yes, for it has drawn me since I was young, when I still dreamed of freedom from hardship."

Hamlet stepped back, but retained his hold on her hand. "Would you show me?"

There was a moment of silence, and then Ophelia nodded. She carefully led him to the water's edge, smooth stones and reeds marking its path before they disappeared in the darkness of the creek's depth. They kneeled together, so close to the water's surface Hamlet could feel a certain coldness emanating from it.

"I am with you," he murmured. Ophelia briefly paused in her deep breaths to nod at him.

A few moments later, she shoved both of her hands deep into the water. She gasped, whether from the cold or from a deep, primal emotion in her very being he could not tell, but did not take out her hands. Hamlet gave her a proud smile, and copied her. Under the water, he clasped her hand in his, neither of them caring that their embroidered sleeves were getting soaked.

They sat there, leaning against each other, until their fingers began to turn blue.

* * *

"HAMLET!"

The prince dashed through his dream of darkness, searching for the source of the voice. Was it summoning him? Or was it chasing him? Suddenly, a ghostly figure appeared in front of him, hands outstretched like claws with a face twisted with malice.

"HAMLET!" It shouted again.

It was his father.


End file.
